


Contrapuntal

by heuradys



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996), due South
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-19
Updated: 2005-10-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heuradys/pseuds/heuradys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina, Saskatchewan, Wednesday, 1:46 AM</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrapuntal

Inconsiderate and uncultured  
That's an educated edge  
Insults dipped in condescension  
That's what someone else has to live with

\--Headstones, Nickels For Your Nightmares

~~~

Regina, Saskatchewan  
Wednesday, 1:46 a.m. 

~~~

Ditching Bruce and the camera crew wasn't hard. They were only interested in Billy and Joe, anyway. Fuckers. He and John were nothing more than glorified extras. And John… all he wanted to do was sit and write in that damned notebook of his and freak out because his pills were missing. 

Pipe sighed. He wasn't used to Central Time; two freakin' hours off from his own schedule. Hell, okay, Regina wasn't exactly his idea of a fun town, but there had to be something more interesting than sitting at the Horton's and listening to Billy and Joe loving and hating each other and picking on him. 

Lighting a smoke, he closed his eyes, spun until he was dizzy, and then opened them again. Okay. Brick wall. Not a direction. Making the necessary adjustment to his trajectory, he wandered off into the night. "Okay, Regina, entertain me."

Half an hour later, Regina was failing dismally on the entertainment front. It was pissing him off - and he had to piss like a motherfucker. Fucking November. Fucking Tuesday. Or maybe, fucking Wednesday. Yeah, Wednesday. He had booze, he had cash. He had condoms, even, despite promising his stupid girlfriend that he'd keep his dick in his pants for the whole tour. Yeah, right. He snorted. Like she'd be able to tell unless he came home - well, back to her place - with some sort of crotch rot. Let Billy and Joe fuck every skank that came around without rubbers. Let their dicks fall off. Heh. Joe Dickless. But there wasn't a single broad on Broad Street, he was *lost*, and his bladder was screaming.

He flicked his cigarette butt into the street, pulled his jacket a little more tightly around himself, and kept walking. There had to be somewhere he could piss without feeling like he was holding onto a pricksicle. 

Hey, wait a minute. There was a light on in the… "Jesus fuck..." curling club. They *had* to have a john. Maybe they'd let him use it.

~~~

Constable (okay, Cadet - and not even that if he didn't pass tomorrow's -- today's -- test) Renfield Turnbull stepped onto the ice, never once taking his eyes off the stones at the other end of the sheet. Their opponents had left them a near-impossible shot. He met the eyes of his vice-skip, former Brier champion Gordon Cutter. The great man, veritable curling god that he was, nodded once firmly, and indicated the shot. 

Renfield nodded back, his eyes narrowing as he stepped into the hack, his form perfect as he readied himself. Cutter indicated the handle; Renfield made the minute adjustment. Taking a slow, deep breath, he pulled back the stone, every muscle tensing. He slid out of the hack, releasing the stone at precisely the right moment. He stood, balancing on his non-slider foot, watching the stone's course down the sheet, and --

"Hey, dude! Where's the can in this place?"

\-- fell hard, his slider foot shooting out from under him as he turned. His world tilted crazily and time slowed but raced by in a blur. A brief glimpse of a leather-jacketed thug standing in the doorway of the warm room, and then he was blinking at the ceiling, trying to get his breath back, his heart racing in his aching ribcage. He rested his head on the ice for a moment, thankful that he'd remembered to keep it up this time, and nearly wept as he heard the solid, musical thunks of stones hitting each other too soon.

"Whoa! Fuck! Jesus, are you fucking okay?" 

Renfield raised his head. His imagined bonspiel's trappings had vanished, but the very real thug was skidding towards him, sullying the ice with his street shoes. "Oh! Please! Please get off the ice!" He rolled over quickly, groaning a little as he made it onto his hands and knees. "I'm fine."

"Yeah? You sure?" 

"Yes, I'm sure!" Renfield squatted, balancing carefully. "Please, sir, get off the ice. Your shoes are damaging it."

"Sir?" The stranger laughed, and Renfield suppressed a shiver as the whiskey and cigarette sound echoed in the huge, cold room. "It's fucking ice. Shoes hurt it and those fucking rocks don't?"

Renfield bristled, glaring at the thug and getting ready to stand, but the stranger was retreating to the carpeted area behind the hack. Renfield winced at the twinges in his back as he got the rest of the way to his feet and followed him slowly, admiring -- despite himself -- the man's sturdy thighs in his tight, well worn jeans and the way the light shimmered on the blond in the man's shoulder-length hair. It could, he supposed, be natural highlighting, but it was far more likely that chemicals had a hand in it, given the fairness of the man's complexion.

"How --" He cleared his throat, his hands clenching and unclenching nervous fists, as he joined the stranger on the carpet. "How did you get in here, sir?"

"Jesus, stop calling me sir. You're making me feel old. Name's Pipefitter." The stranger shrugged, not looking at him. "The door was unlocked. I ain't going to steal anything."

"Oh. I'm --" His cheeks warmed, despite the temperature. Unsure whether he was more humiliated by his unconscionable error of the unlocked door or by the stranger's perception, he slumped onto one of the benches, pulled the slider off his left foot and dropped it. Could he do just one thing right today? Ever? "Pipefitter? That's your whole name?"

The man - Pipefitter - joined him on the bench. "It's the only one I use," he said, somewhat defensively. "Who are you?"

"Renfield Turnbull." Renfield raised his head, finally looking at Pipefitter -- meeting oh, such beautiful sapphire-blue eyes -- and extending his hand politely. "Oh, please! No smoking."

Pipefitter grinned sheepishly. "Would fuck up the ice, right?" He pushed the cigarette he'd been raising to his mouth back into a crumpled packet, extending his own hand. The light glittered on the two heavy, silver rings on his forefinger and ring finger.

They were surprisingly warm in the chill of the room, Renfield discovered, his breath catching in his throat. Pipefitter gave his hand a little squeeze before releasing it and grinning at him again; Renfield stared at the laugh lines at the corners of Pipefitter's eyes, fascinated. People didn't smile at him very often. 

"Now that the introductions are done, can I use the john? Please? Before I do something that will really fuck up your ice?"

"Oh! Oh dear! Of course, you may!" Renfield stood quickly, feeling his blush deepen impossibly more. "I'm terribly sorry! I forgot! If you'll just follow me, the facilities are upstairs." 

Pipefitter slapped him lightly on the back, and Renfield winced. "Well, dude, you fell. Good reason to forget, right? Lead on." 

~~

Pipe unzipped his jacket as he followed Renfield -- and he thought he had a weirdass first name himself -- out of the fucking freezer and into the lounge. Well, he guessed it was the lounge. His first time in a curling club was turning out to be weirder than he'd thought it would be. 

"So, do you like… live here or something, Rennie?" He looked around at the arrayed chairs and couches --so much plaid that if he sat on one while wearing his kilt he didn't think anyone would notice him, racks of pamphlets, and pictures of weirdoes with brooms, all lit only through the large windows next to the -- apparently sacred -- ice.

"Huh? What?" Renfield looked over his shoulder, fingers fumbling with the deadbolt lock on the door Pipe had come in. 

Pipe tensed. Shit… Could he even get out if he had to? Renfield was a really fucking big guy. Really fucking big. But, Pipe reminded himself, he'd landed pretty hard on the ice, so he'd probably be slow… and hell, guys that clean-cut didn't know how to fight anywhere near as dirty as he did. "Do you live here?"

"Oh! No, I do not. However, I've missed lights-out at Depot, so I… I guess I'm spending the night here." Renfield looked down at his feet, then muttered what had to be the lamest swear word Pipe had ever heard come out of a man's mouth -- sounded like he'd said, "Oh flummadiddle!" -- and sat down on the fucking floor and started untying his shoes, looking like somebody had killed his puppy. 

Flummadiddle? What the fuck? His grandmother swore better than -- Wait a minute -- "Depot? You're a Mountie?" Christ on a fucking crutch. Mounties knew how to fight… and he was trapped in a curling club with one. 

"Well," Renfield said, standing and running his fingers over the soles of his shoes, "I hope to become one." His troubled expression changed to one of incredible devotion as he raised his head. Fuck, even the most rabid fans never looked quite like that! "I've wanted to be one for as long as I can remember." He looked back down at his shoes, rubbing at a spot on the left one.

Couldn't have been very long. The guy couldn't remember to lock doors and didn't remember that he was wearing his special curling shoes while not in the… uh… ice room not five minutes after yelling at him about shoes in the ice room. Pipe bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh at him. So Renfield was forgetful and weird. He was forgetful and weird. 

"So," he said, watching Renfield's big, long fingers wipe away imaginary specks of shoe dirt, "I guess offering to split a joint's out of the question, huh?" He did laugh, then, at Renfield's scandalized expression. "Just kidding, Rennie! Your shoes okay?" 

Renfield looked unsure if he should laugh or not. "Yes, I believe they are." He blushed again. "I… I… The washroom is just up these stairs." He brushed by Pipe, closely enough for Pipe to feel the texture of his light grey shirt, and started climbing the dimly-lit staircase.

Pipe followed, watching Renfield -- okay, watching his ass, which really wasn't his thing, but damn it was right there at eye level and was a really nice ass. 

"I really was shitting you about sharing a joint. Honest." Yeah, since Joe had kiped what was left of the bag his girlfriend had given him, pot was out of the question unless Renfield had some of his own. Not fucking likely. "All I've got on me is my smokes and half a bottle of really shitty whiskey."

Renfield stopped abruptly; Pipe managed not to get a face-full of very nice ass. Just barely. He grabbed the railing, opening his mouth to say, "Fucking hell! Warn a guy!", and was suddenly faced with a package more impressive than the ass. "Jesus!" He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his view of Renfield's groin had been replaced by Renfield's earnestly concerned face, and Renfield's big hands were fisted on the sleeves of his jacket. 

"Are you all right, Mr. Pipefitter? I didn't mean to --"

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine. Just warn a guy when you stop on the fucking stairs!" 

"I'm terribly sorry! I just --"

"Yeah, yeah, I got that. Why'd you stop?"

"I am glad you were, as you say, shitting me," Renfield paused to give him a tiny smile, "because I really do not want our new acquaintance to end with arresting you." As Pipe gaped at him, Renfield released his grip on Pipe's jacket, dusting the patches he'd held with his fingertips, then turned and kept climbing.

"You can do that?" Pipe shook off the shocks of the past several minutes, hurrying to catch up again. "You're not even a cop yet!"

Renfield reached the top of the staircase and waited for Pipe to join him before he replied. "I could affect a citizen's arrest," he said solemnly. "It's entirely legal if I call the police immediately upon arresting you." 

"No shit?"

"No shit, Mr. Pipefitter." 

That's two. Jesus. Rennie would call Joe "Mr. Dick" with a straight face, wouldn't he? And he wouldn't mean what Pipe meant when he called Joe that. Wow.

"The washrooms are right down that hallway." Renfield pointed as he turned on a light switch. 

Finally! "Thanks, Rennie. My teeth are floatin' here." Pipe headed toward the hallway, glancing over his shoulder as he went. 

Renfield paused on his way to a table, where a small tidy pile of books and several wads of crumpled paper awaited him, near the large windows overlooking the ice. "You're very welcome, Mr. Pipefitter."

"That's three!" Pipe said with a grin. "Just call me 'Pipe'. If you ever call me 'mister' again, I'll kick your ass. I'm only 33 fucking years-old."

~~~

Renfield sank into the chair he'd vacated an hour earlier, pulling the textbooks he'd shoved away in a moment of mingled despair and frustration toward himself again. He opened the top book, setting the bookmark neatly aside, and started reading. Less than a minute later, he stopped, rubbing his eyes. Every time he blinked, the numbers changed, and it had nothing to do with him being distracted by thinking about the curious individual in the men's room. 

He couldn't deny it, though, that Pipe was a tremendous distraction. A shocking, coarse, foul-mouthed, curling-ignorant… but attractive man. One who'd been concerned when he saw a stranger fall. One who had only teased him kindly. One who'd smiled at him without being patronizing. Yet.

Renfield shook his head, looking out over the ice. Of course Pipe was only being polite, in a rough way. He wanted just one thing, and when he was finished using the facilities, he'd leave. Better not to think about him. Better to think about the examination he was going to fail if he didn't study more, the prayed-for career he'd never have if he didn't pass.

He glanced over toward the hallway, and as he turned back to his books, his gaze alit on the Queen's portrait. Her regal visage seemed to frown at him, much like his mother always did. He took a deep breath, sat up straighter, averted his eyes from Her, and began to read again. 

He'd memorized -- he hoped -- a single paragraph, when Pipe's voice interrupted him. Renfield carefully marked his place, looking up to watch him. He didn't know the name of the scurrilous song Pipe was quietly and cheerfully singing as he walked down the hall, and he didn't get a chance to ask, because when Pipe grinned at him, his heart did an odd little double beat and he forgot. 

"Hey, Rennie, this place is pretty fucking weird! What's with the huge first aid kit in there?" Pipe pulled out the chair next to his, spun it, and sat straddling it, pulling off his leather jacket and digging in one of the pockets.

Renfield fought to keep his eyes on Pipe's face, but failed just long enough to notice the damp spots on Pipe's worn jeans, where he'd obviously wiped his hands, and the way the denim strained over his crotch. Heat rushing to his cheeks, he shifted in his seat, gasping a little as his back twinged, and Pipe looked at him curiously. "Curling, like any sport played on ice, can be very dangerous. People have been paralyzed, even -- on a few rare occasions -- died. It's important to fall correctly. Before anyone sets foot on the ice, they're required to sign a waiver."

"Did you?" Pipe's eyebrows drew together in a frown. 

"Did I what?" He shifted again, wishing his jeans were just a bit looser, as Pipe lit a cigarette and snapped his Zippo lighter closed with a flick of his wrist. "Oh, of course, I signed. I was fully cognizant of the risks, naturally, before I even read the document." 

"No, did you fall okay?" Pipe kept meeting his eyes as he reached for the ashtray in the middle of the table. "'Cause that looked like it really fucking hurt."

"Yes, I… Well, I must admit that my back and my ribs aren't feeling their best, but I kept my head up." 

"I'm really sorry."

The sincerity in Pipe's eyes almost did him in. He blushed again. "I fall all the time! Honestly, it's --"

"You ever had to piss so fucking bad, man, that when you finally did, it felt like you were coming?"

~~~

It was true. He'd had orgasms that hadn't felt as fucking good as unzipping his jeans and letting what felt like a gallon out of his bladder. He hadn't meant to say it like that, but Jesus, the guy couldn't accept a simple fucking apology. It was his fault that Rennie fell -- and now it was his fault that Rennie was coughing and sputtering like he was choking on air. 

"I -- No, I can't say that I ever -- No!" 

"Well, I hadn't either before tonight. I thought I was going to explode." Pipe laughed, slapping Rennie on the shoulder. "I think I'll stick with coming from now on." 

Rennie futzed with the cover of his book, and Pipe found himself wondering if that blush went all the way down. Pipe looked down at the ashtray; he'd missed the last time he'd flicked his ash. He picked up the piece of paper it had landed on, and brushed the ash into the ashtray. Now he was trashing the guy's homework, too. Jesus Christ, he should just go back to the damned motel and… and what? Be bored out of his skull? Get drunk and jerk off? Neither thought was particularly appealing as a solo event. 

Rennie seemed way too uptight to ever go for it, but… "So…"

"I expect you're ready to depart," Rennie said. His voice sounded sorta wistful, and Pipe looked up sharply. 

Rennie sounded as lonely as he felt sometimes, but no fucking way was he going to just assume anything, no matter what he wanted. "You trying to get rid of me? 'Cause I'll leave if you want me to." Yeah, so he was basically an intruder in Rennie's curling club and his night's plans, but Rennie was someone to talk to; someone who didn't know him or have any expectations. Somebody who probably even knew how to get Pipe back to the hotel. He mentally crossed his fingers. 

"Oh! No, I'm not," Rennie protested. "I just -- I'm sure you have better things to do than to… watch me study."

"No," he said flatly, "I don't. It's after three in the friggin' morning on a Wednesday, and we're not leaving until this afternoon sometime. And it's cold out there, man." He ashed his cigarette again, glancing around the room. "I won't interrupt your studying if I hang out here, will I? I mean, you've got a TV. I can watch TV while you study." 

Ouch. Pipe recognized that expression, that 'I'm going to fail even if I do study' look, the one in Rennie's eyes as he looked back down at his books. He'd felt that kind of despairing frustration plenty of times, back before he'd dropped out of school. Rennie sure hadn't been studying when he'd come in. No wonder he'd been out there on the ice risking death instead. 

Rennie still looked a little unsure, so Pipe upped the ante. "Tell you what, you study for half an hour, and then we can take a break together."

"We?"

"Yeah, we. You and me. You taking a break from studying and me taking a break from whatever the CBC's spewing onto the airwaves this late."

Rennie smiled a little. "No, you said 'we aren't leaving.' You're not from Regina?"

"Me? Hell no. Vancouver. The band's only in town for the one show; we're heading to Winnipeg next."

"You're in a band?" Rennie's eyes lit up. 

Pipe grinned. Looked like he wouldn't be getting booted out of the curling club after all. "Hard Core Logo," he said proudly. Rennie's smile remained politely blank; he shook his head. Well, duh. If he didn't recognize the name Pipefitter he'd never heard of Hard Core fucking Logo. "I'm the drummer. We're on a little reunion tour, sort of. Kind of, you know, impromptu." He shrugged half-heartedly. "We broke up like five years ago, got together for a benefit show, and now…" Now he didn't want to think about it; didn't want to think about how in a few days he'd traveled back in time… how easy it was. He stood up, shrugging again and trying to ignore the way Rennie looked so disappointed--like he really gave a shit about Pipe's fucking dreams for the band. "Anyway, you study."

"But--"

"Half an hour, dude, right?" Pipe interrupted. He grabbed his jacket off the table, turning away from Rennie's crestfallen expression. "Shit." He squatted to pick up the pile of papers he'd knocked off the table, glancing at the top one as he rose. 

Blushing furiously, Rennie snatched the stack out of his hands. "Let me-- Let me get you the remote control!" 

Frowning, Pipe flicked the ash from his cigarette again, watching Rennie dig in the cupboard near the television. Poor fucker, he thought, you didn't miss that curfew by choice, did you? What he'd managed to read of the note, written in a messy scrawl with a thick black marker, made that crystal fucking clear. Ditched at the fucking curling club. Shit. He'd always heard that curlers were so fucking nice. Fuckers, even if he didn't know why yet. He slung his jacket over his shoulder, picked up the ashtray, and walked over to the worn, green-plaid sofa in front of the TV. 

~~

He's going to ask any second now, Renfield thought, anxiously brushing non-existent dust from the pages of his book. There was no way that Pipefitter couldn't have read the note Hugh, Callum, and Paul had left him--on his lap, where he couldn't miss it when he woke up--the lettering was too large for even a slow child to find it incomprehensible. Any second now… 

But the expected question still didn't come. 

Renfield glanced sidelong at the sofa and winced slightly --despite the age and condition of the sofa's upholstery, he wanted to chide Pipe for having his shod feet on it. Pipe was scowling at the television, cursing under his breath as he flipped from channel to channel, looking quite at home. In the hand that didn't hold the remote, he loosely held a half-full bottle of brown liquid that he raised to his lips as Renfield watched. Pipe's scowl turned into more of a comical grimace as whatever was in the bottle hit his tongue, and Renfield fought to contain a smile.

He looked back down at his textbook, at the swirl of numbers that wouldn't match up properly with the words beside them. Nearly twenty minutes of the half-hour had passed, and he'd not learned a thing. Well, nothing about the Canadian Criminal Code, at any rate. He had learned that Pipe couldn't watch the same channel for more than thirty seconds--although, given the dearth of quality programming at such an hour, Renfield couldn't particularly blame him--or watch quietly, either. He'd learned that horror movies that turned his stomach made Pipe laugh, merrily, with more than a tinge of derision--yet not too loudly. Renfield suspected, with no way of confirming it, that Pipe was being less vocal about his annoyance with the television than he would be if he were alone, simply for his--Renfield's--sake, and it warmed him more than it should have, just like the smoky, whiskey burn of Pipe's laughter.


End file.
